


The Soul Never Left

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Heals, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Original Percival Graves is Bad at Feelings, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Recovery, Scars, past Dub con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 22:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16167896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: Tina found Credence in the rubble of the church. He isn't sure if he wanted to be found.Recovery takes a long time, but you don't have to do it alone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flightinflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightinflame/gifts).



> I have a lot of unpublished FB fic and the approach of November is making me panic a bit, so enjoy this self-indulgent deep dive into all the recovery Credence will probably never get. I have no idea how long it'll end up being. Honestly, I'm still trying to start posting fic again.
> 
> Warning: this fic refers to a past relationship between Credence and Grindelwald, which definitely had a sexual element. Given Grindelwald's motives and the fact that he wasn't who he said he was, while Credence said yes it's definitely dubcon at best. Also there will be mentions of child abuse, both physical and mental. More warnings will accrue once Percival Graves gets involved with his own treatment up to and during the movie. Take care of yourselves!

Vanity is a sin, the preening pouting sickening visage of pride bordering on lust. There were no mirrors in the church; even pausing by a window to squint at the strange shape overlaying the mannequins or breads was enough to get him cuffed, from the moment he was old enough to go out with Ma, which was always. He believed her when she said he was ugly, because she said that lying was also a sin. Witches lied, spinning illusions, and when he used to curl a hair around his finger when he thought he was safe there would be no warning before the slap. His fingers would ache as she forbade him from any falsehoods, for surely if he ever made himself look attractive that would be the worst deception.

He'd cowered away, when Queenie had offered to help him clean himself. The dirt felt like scabs, like bloody feet and scoured palms, yet he couldn't make himself ask. Mr Graves had drawn long, luxurious baths in elegant hotel rooms, perfumed and rich in bubbles and intoxicating before the first touch of the warmth. Now the thought of those baths makes him feel sick. He knows it wasn't worth the _everything else_ , but he can still feel himself slipping under.

Queenie had been so patient though, reading his disgust at his state and never once agreeing. She'd waited until everyone was gone, crying off from the park and Tina's weekend work, and then little by little she'd coaxed him out. At first Credence had been so bewildered when she'd left him alone in the bathroom, standing waiting for who knew how long for her return. Eventually he heard her pass by, pause by the door, then call out, "Take as long as you need, honey!" Only when he'd tried to make sense of that had he realised that she expected him to bathe alone.

His filth turned the water grey. She called out again, this time asking if he wanted to run it again himself or to cover himself and wait for her to do it. Mortified at the thought, he didn't even know what he'd stammered as he hauled himself out, shuddering at the waste as he drained and refilled the tub. Queenie had promised they had their own charms on the water, explaining she meant things like heat when he'd gone pale at the memory of elegant fingers. When he finally stumbled out, wrapped in soft cloth like a cloud because he couldn't find his clothes, Queenie had presented him with cocoa and settled him on the couch and run a comb through his hair, humming the whole time and not minding how he shivered or cringed or flinched but just waiting for him.

It was only later, telling him with a pout that they'd have company soon and that was the only reason they were moving, that she'd drawn some sort of shining glass from the air and held it out. Inside, some ghoul, barely more than a skeleton, stared out at him with wide sunken eyes. It was only when its mouth moved with the same startled cry that he realised what it was, and quickly shut his eyes.

"Oh," Queenie had said, breathless, "no, honey, it isn't wrong."

"It's a sin."

"To know what you look like?" At first he thought she was taunting him - she could read his mind with her demonic ways, she could the truth of it - but she sounded so sad that he looked back at her. Mercifully the strange glass had vanished again, and now after a moment she reached out and pulled him in close. This had surprised him at first, and made him feel ill, the unexpected closeness anticipating either pain or the hot wrongness of Mr Graves. Queenie brought neither sensation though, only comforting arms and sweet smells. Gluttony was just as bad as vanity, Credence knew, so as much as he found himself craving these touches he didn't demand them. She always knew though, pink and gentle. She didn't try to touch his hair after the first time - the comb he could handle in his confusion, the sensation making him remember the wrong things - just holding him close.

"I don't – " He swallowed, voice strangely thick. "I look like a freak."

"Never," Queenie told him, voice full of strength he blasphemously fancied Christ could build his Church on. "You just look sick, honey. You look like someone who needs help." When Credence's thoughts flutter in protest, her arms tighten and he found no regrets. "You _are_ someone who needs help. You'll get better, I promise."

Credence pushed closer, closing his eyes and allowing himself one sinful moment. In the darkness, he whispers his truth: "I should have died."

"Nobody _should_ die, honey," Queenie tells him, "at least not like that. Some folks, maybe it'd be better, but we don't decide. You're alive, and that's only a good thing."

"I don't feel alive."

"You only just stopped dying, honey. Give it time."

\---

He couldn’t face going outside. So often simply looking out of the window felt like too much: too much space, too much life, too much to remember. Sometimes he spent all day cowered in bed like the animal he was, blanket drawn tight and over his head as if he could somehow be a child again. (That was a lie as much as anything else: that he had ever been that idea of a child.) Queenie found him under the bed more than once, her lovely face twisting as she said there was nothing to be afraid of. She didn’t threaten to beat him, although he found he still wanted to do as she said so she wouldn't be sad anymore. One time, she made the bed stretch up, just on the cusp of him screaming, and she joined him underneath with her own blanket and mugs of cocoa. She told him stories about growing up with Tina, and every time she hesitated he tried not to think of how much he missed his sisters.

Only Queenie could touch him. Everyone else, he thought they would burn, or freeze, or sicken, or be devoured whole by the thing stretching inside him. It was too late for Queenie. She wouldn’t stop pulling him close, and he enjoyed the feeling too much. He found himself curling into her whenever she gave him the chance - never around anyone else, obviously, but when she stayed home and sat with him, it was far too easy to let her convince him to relax just a little against her. Maybe because he wondered what it would be like to have a ma who was happy with him as he was, or maybe he just wanted the slightest echo of the warmth he used to steal in back alleys.

Queenie's soothing fingers stilled. "That wasn't right, what he did, hon."

Shuddering, uncertain what from, Credence said, "But I liked it."

\---

Tina didn’t seem certain what to do with him; or, as Queenie insisted, how to act around him, “because you’re not something for people to use.” He nodded along whenever she said that, but they both knew he didn’t believe her. In the Bible, people were used all the time, for higher or lower purposes. Ma said that witches served the Devil, without ever calling them things. They chose to do evil. The witches he’d met don't seem like sinners - at least, not in that sense – but she couldn’t be all wrong. She knew a sinner when she saw one. Not being a ‘thing’ didn’t make him a ‘person’.

Tina was good, like her sister. She wanted to help. When Credence was stumbling in the ashes of the church, vanishing in and out of rubble as he buried himself over and over, she found him and she brought him back here. It hurt her when he pulled away, but he didn’t know what else to do. Everything was pulling away from him. Queenie was only there because she knew his thoughts. Tina couldn’t understand. He wasn’t sure who she saw when she looked at him, but it made him want to hide; have to hide; close the door and sink to his knees like a penitent coward.

\---

The first time he woke to Newt watching him, the scream froze in his throat until it choked him. Unlike Tina, Newt didn’t even try to hide what he was doing: steady eyes, steady breaths. Credence almost thought he was back in the subway station, looking for warmth and safety when he’d thrown both of them away. There was that same sense, of a stranger seeming closer than people he’d known all his life.

That sense of being _seen_.

He wasn’t aware of moving after his initial start, yet at some point Newt blinked and smiled, sitting back. "How are you, Credence?"

Something about the way he said his name. Credence couldn’t place it. It was a little like Mr Graves, maybe: careful, precise. Like there was a greater meaning to it. The similarity ended there – no possession, no words dipping into his mind – but Credence still burrowed down into the thin blanket he’d accepted from the Goldsteins. He didn’t know this man, after all.

"I'm sorry I couldn't visit sooner," Newt went on, fingers now tapping lightly on the case next to him on the bed. "I wanted to, as soon as Tina told me she'd found you, but..." His mouth turned down, eyes abruptly skittering away. "That's the problem when humans know where you are."

Vaguely Credence knew he should question that, but he couldn’t when it felt so right. He was hiding here, after all, whatever the Goldsteins said. That fear of the outside wasn’t rootless.

"What do you want?" He couldn’t imagine what Newt might have to offer him. It was hard to imagine anything good.

Newt smiled at him – _at_ him, the same as Queenie and Tina. Not like Mr Graves, smiling at what Credence could do for him, or the thought of the child, or whatever it was that twisted the memory in Credence's stomach. "I told you before, Credence: I want to help you."

\---

It took days for Newt to convince him to consider going inside the case. “It’s like outside, just safe” and Credence wanted to believe in that impossibility. Queenie and Tina agreed – or didn’t disagree in Tina’s case, her mouth pulling to one side every time Newt said ‘safe’ – but trying left him sweaty and shaking, disgusting. Without needing to hear it, Newt pulled back, instead producing wondrous creatures from his pockets or the case with a sly smile towards the door. Credence hated the idea of sneaking around, lying again, until Queenie joined them one day beaming at the occamy curled around Credence's wrist. That made it a little better, maybe.

The creatures didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with him – at least not the smaller ones. The niffler ran off with Newt in pursuit, Queenie saying it was because he doesn't have anything shiny, that was all. That still bit at him, just not as much. He was used to having nothing to his name. When she gave him a gleaming hairpin to hold, he quickly found his lap full of curious sniffs and soft fur. The rest only needed Newt to lie that Credence was safe. It didn’t make Credence feel more human, but he supposed this did make him a creature of sorts. It was better than being nothing.

Being a creature sounded nice.

\---

He overheard them talking about another obscurus in Newt's case, one Mr Graves stole. It still tasted strange to him, that word for the demon, something so alien struggling inside him. He wasn’t surprised to hear Newt's voice tighten, Tina's hesitate, Queenie's shiver. Queenie told him he looked human, so maybe they forgot. It was only without the lie of his face that they remembered the creature they had taken in.

Newt wouldn’t try to take the obscurus out of him. Credence wished he could be that certain about anything, speaking with that kind of finality. Again, it made him think of how Mr Graves spoke, with no alternatives, so that any objections fell apart like Credence's hands and mind. "I won't risk it," he said, and Credence didn’t blame him: if it went wrong he’d kill all of them. He didn’t want to, but he didn’t think he'd have a choice. He gave that up when he gave into it. The obscurus was for killing, and Credence had no idea where it started and ended. It was a shame, though: he thought he would like floating inside Newt's case. Maybe if he offered not to turn back into something that looks human, Newt would let him stay.

\---

When Newt found him under the bed, he didn’t say a word. He just lay under the other bed in the room, as if that was always his intention. After a while he slid over a book, battered and partially chewed. Credence stared at it for the rest of the day, uncertain where the trap was. Mr Graves never gave him anything for nothing; nobody ever did. That wasn’t what he was _for_

\---.

They talked about him at other times too, now that Newt was here. It struck him that the walls were far thinner than he believed, the long silences from the kitchen at night suddenly suspicious. Only now did he remember the charms Mr Graves used to give them privacy, in cafés and hotels as well as the alleys. He wondered what it meant that Newt didn’t use them.

He woke up gasping in the middle of the night, on top of the bed for a change. At first he thought that was what had startled him: all that space overhead. It had been years, unless you counted the deep oblivion of the hotels, and those hadn’t been beds, they were clouds. Then the voices filtered through his mind and he knew.

_Mr Graves._

He strained to listen and to push it away at the same time. He could feel his sweat, his quickening breaths threatening to drown out anything else. Had he come to claim Credence after all? Credence wasn’t sure if the memories against his skin are fingers or fists, but he knew that if Mr Graves called, he'll go. The subway was still there, the sensation of brick dust and tears and the inevitability of Mr Graves' voice. He would see Credence, because he always had done. He was the only person who ever did. In all that rage, Credence could still hear him say 'miracle'; the only person who would ever even think of calling him that. Mr Graves wasn’t good, but that was what Credence deserved.

He was shaking, the bed starting to move with him, rattling as the sheet twisted tighter in his fists. Mr Graves would come here, he’d _find_ him, and Credence would be responsible for everyone dying _again_. His hands ache from his girlish fingernails, long enough to dig into his palms, but they didn’t feel like his and they didn’t feel like his. It was too easy to imagine Mr Graves was hurting him again.

Everything was blurring. He’d be gone soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for dissociation and a few more details on the Grindelwald bad touch. Also, Newt continues to be very bad at people.

When Mr Graves had looked at him, suddenly Credence had felt real. Not a ghost or an afterthought, but something people could see. The intensity of it made his skin tingle even at the memory, every inch of him coming alive in the wake of that gaze.

It was hideously selfish, of course, a sin so deep he had once luxuriated in it the same way he had caressed the soft sheets in the hotels or savoured the dark chocolate sauce in the cafés. All that teaching, and Credence had fallen from grace so easily. That was why he struggled to believe that Mr Graves had done anything wrong. Surely it had only been a matter of time before some devil or other took him; like Eve, the moment he was aware of what could happen, it was too late.

Pulled close in alleyways, he'd tried to focus on the glint of Mr Graves' eyes, but time and again his own lids had slid shut so that all he’d known was warm breath and warm words, his frozen self responding to every scalding brush of fingers against wrists and neck. At least then there had been nothing to do but feel, surrendering to the shadows as it seemed the darkness itself was reaching out to touch him. The first time in the hotel, he'd cowered away from the harsh glare of the soft lights, but Mr Graves had coaxed him closer, forced him to watch every button sliding free, every slice of skin revealed.

In moments of revelation, the prophets never focused on themselves, confronted by the full majesty of the Almighty. All that mattered was the wonder itself which had blinded Saul, and Credence didn’t recall Moses or Peter or any of the rest ever thinking about themselves in that moment. He supposed it was appropriate, then, that for all that awakening, lit up from the inside, his only insight had been into himself: gangly limbs strewn on the sheets, ribs clear enough to trace, sweat running from his face into his hair as his head reared back into the pillows. When he’d averted his gaze, a hand had caught his chin, forcing him to look. There was something vast in Mr Graves' eyes, and he didn’t think he could ever forget.

Mr Graves had said such things in moments like that, about how Credence looked: perfect, open, _his_. Credence had tucked them away, and later, when Ma wanted to know where he'd been, he’d run his hands over the new marks and told himself that it didn’t matter. This body didn’t belong to her anymore, no matter what she did.

He couldn’t escape that thought even now. Queenie told him he was alive; Tina used his name like an anchor; Newt treated him like a creature and as fine as that was, it still fell short. They'd brought something dark into this place, something of the Devil. Even without his face to make them forget the obscurus, they didn’t know the depth of it. His body had never belonged to him. It was just waiting to be reclaimed.

Mr Graves had called his eyes 'innocent'; his body 'something sweet'. As much as Credence tried at first to scrub the words away, he knew it was impossible. Anyone could see them branded into his skin, if they would only look. Maybe he'd let himself forget, but all it took was hearing that name again after so long and there they were, burning through the night things the witches had conjured out of sheets. His whole body knew where it should be; the chill, too, racing though him and making his skin tremble. The shock of Mr Graves' fist still woke him, the blow after the sharp snap of the belt, yet now he realised that had simply been Mr Graves' right.

Queenie spoke softly the next night, concerned about the red of his arms. He agreed absolutely: how dare he try to change anything? He couldn’t say that though, or explain that he’d only wanted to be clean again for when Mr Graves took him back, only capable of murmuring meaningless replies like the idiot he was. She was brushing his hair so carefully, and Ma cut it too long ago. He hoped Mr Graves wouldn’t mind.

When Queenie conjured the mirror again, he dragged his eyes up the way she wanted him to, and saw Mr Graves' possession.

He couldn’t even call himself hideous now. Without Mr Graves - like Ma before - he had no meaning. He was a ghost waiting for a god.

\---

 

They suspected something. He didn’t know what, but Queenie was smiling too brightly and Tina wasn’t smiling at all. They asked if he wanted to talk when that was the last thing he wanted to do. The days under the bed were growing, and while Newt let the creatures crawl under to join him, Credence could tell Tina didn’t approve. Not even Queenie's hugs could help him anymore; not now that he’d remembered who he belonged to. He just pictured all that darkness inside him spilling out, staining her, ripping their apartment to pieces.

The first time Tina suggested going outside, Credence didn’t laugh, because he didn’t laugh at anything. He still assumed it was a joke, though, until he saw the set to her jaw. Chastity had used to get that sometimes; Modesty too, when he reminded them of what Ma could do to them.

Then the panic started

Truthfully, he wasn’t sure how the obscurus didn’t tear its way out of him right then and there. He knew he should have been grateful for the mercy, except all he could do was focus on his breathing as Newt directed him, the motions in and out suddenly the hardest thing in the world. The room blurred at the edges, the walls stretching out and in, and he was screaming something but he couldn’t hear it so maybe it had just been in his mind.

The mercies were over, though. He heard the three of them through the wall as he pretended to sleep, wondering about "don't take me back" and "I'm not yours". Even if they asked, he knew he wouldn’t explain, and Newt recited it along with him as if he could read minds too.

\---

He expected them to drop it, or hoped they would. Instead, Tina sat him down only a few days later, with hot cocoa between them and dinner sitting guiltily in his belly, and spoke the words ‘Disillusionment Charms’. "Obviously if you want to look different altogether, we could do that too," she said, the words heavy and reluctant and apparently floating somewhere over Credence’s shoulder. "I - We thought that this seemed like the smaller risk?"

His fingers twist and untwist around his mug, scratching a nail along the ridge. "I'd be invisible?"

"Sort of?" She shrugged, smiling so widely for a moment he thought she would hurt herself. "It makes you hard to see - you just blend in with everything else."

The cocoa swirled slowly. He wasn’t sure why Queenie made it do that, other than to give him something to look at when he knew he didn’t deserve to drink it. "I'm good at that." He heard Tina swallow in the silence; remembered Mr Graves making a plate of chocolate cake float into place in front of him, ‘a treat’. "I don’t understand why I have to." 

"You can't stay in here your whole life, Credence." He tucked himself further into the slump which curved his spine so easily, away from the lie that he had a life to live. "I won't insult you by saying I know what's going on in your head, but I don't think hiding will help."

She stumbled over ‘hiding’. Credence wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to, because she was right: he was hiding, and he didn’t want to stop. "Where would I go?" he asked, the words stretched in his throat. Everywhere he knew, Mr Graves could be waiting, and the thought made the demon in his chest twist its grip a little tighter. He could exist again. Or he could keep the devil outside a little longer.

Tina threw up her hands, finally dropping the stiffness just a little. Credence couldn’t help relaxing, even as he hid the flinch. "Honestly, I don’t have anywhere in mind. Just…go outside. One hour, maybe."

He frowned. His thumb pushed against the mug, still warm, not hot enough to scald, and it was only when he flexed his finger against the nail that he could comprehend what she was saying. "I could come back?"

"Of course!" Tina sounded like when he talked about Ma. "You can stay as long as you want!"

It was more kindness than they should ever offer him. 

The demon let him say yes.

\---

Standing in the middle of the carpet in front of the fire, waiting for witches to cast a spell on him, Credence hardly knew where he was anymore. If he opened his eyes, he didn’t know who he would see. 

_"Let me help you."_

_"Let me show you."_

Always Credence letting it happen. Choosing it. Surrendering willingly.

For all the grandeur in Mr Graves, magic had been something softly spoken, cupped between hands, secrets poured into Credence's ears. It was hard now to connect that wonder with the sight of Newt staying at arm’s length, with head cocked and the smile Credence had seen reassure so many creatures. "It'll feel a little odd," Newt said, "but it won't hurt." Credence didn’t react to that. They were always so quick to tell him there wouldn’t be any pain. Maybe they thought he was afraid of it. He used to be, a long time ago; now there was no point. It would be like fearing the air; fearing his own blood.

It didn’t feel anything like the sweet satisfaction of Mr Graves' spells either, when Newt’s wand tapped the top of his head so delicately. No cooling, no heat, just something running down his neck and spine like rain from a gutter. Without meaning to, he tried to wipe it away. Nothing came away, still seeping into him. 

“You’ll get used to it, honey,” Queenie said, then, too quickly, “I mean, you won’t be able to feel it.” She bit her lip, opened her mouth again, and Tina’s hand landed on her shoulder. No more words came, just the downward curve of her mouth.

“You’re good at this,” Tina said.

Newt ducked his head, scratching at his hair with the fingers not still holding onto his wand. “It comes in useful, sometimes.” Tina hummed, not entirely pleasantly.

Listening to them, Credence rubbed his thumb across his forefingers. Funny, he thought, how sight could dull as easily as touch.

The door creaked open, Queenie standing by expectantly. “Just to the corner, honey. You can do it!”

Stained by magic – the wrong magic – Credence slowly stepped forwards. Ready for nobody to see him, except for the one that mattered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agoraphobia and mild dissociation

Credence didn’t fall up into the sky, although it was a close-run thing. Standing on the front steps, everything spreading out further than four walls, he had to focus on the buildings closing in overhead just to feel grounded. At least there was nothing new in that – he’d never even much liked Central Park. Alleyways and subways and sidewalks made up the world he knew. Even when he could fly, he still ran underground. Credence didn’t think he was meant to be free.

The first afternoon, he managed five minutes slowly sinking to the ground before the trembling in his arms grew so bad he thought he might shake apart. They took him inside then, Queenie congratulating him and Tina smiling and even Newt murmuring when the sisters were in the kitchen that “it’ll get easier”. He should thank them for their patience despite feeling their words couldn’t possibly be true, he knew that, but his arms still wouldn’t stay still. Newt lifted the charm and he instantly felt naked, exposed. The imperceptible weight of it, even without the silken touch of Mr Graves’ magic, had felt like the barrier he needed. Something else holding him together.

He closed his eyes and felt cool eyes tracing him, following the wake of long fingers. Blankets pulled back. Pillows pushed aside. _Never hide yourself from me._

Tina had suggested that morning that perhaps they could manage two trips – maybe go for a walk. He avoided her face as he slunk into his room and closed the door tight.

\---

It never got easier: the sensation of magic slipping over him from head to toe, the _wrong_ magic. The certainty that he'd been marked for life; that Mr Graves would _know_ someone else had touched him like this. Whenever it happened, he closed his eyes just as much to avoid Queenie's expression as his own guilt. She'd tried to correct him a few times, until she heard him wishing she wouldn't. It hurt too much, someone as golden as her twisting into knots over his own mess of a mind. His own wounds.

Someone on the street looked right at him – no – _through_ him. He exhaled, more than just air emerging. It was achingly familiar, the way crowds parted around him without seeing. A stone in the water, exactly the way he should be. Unnoticeable. But now better, reality matching their illusions. People didn’t _avoid_ him anymore, no awkward twitches or angling of bodies. They didn't wish they couldn't see him because _he didn't exist_. Even the Goldsteins would lose him if they glanced away. The first time he saw Tina turn her head sharply from side to side, a strange strangled little thing escaped him, which might have been a giggle but just sounded like one of his more joyous deaths.

The settling of the spell never eased into comfort, but the invisibility did. If Credence had felt _present_ when Mr Graves looked at him, now he felt _right_. Tina seemed so happy when he suggested spending her day off outside that he couldn't bring himself to tell her that it was so he could wallow in that non-existence. She thought he was getting better, and, as much as Ma had despised lying, he wondered whether he might get away with simply not telling the truth this timme. Ma had never fallen for it, but Tina seemed so eager to believe him, and Credence was too much of a parasite to stop. 

Newt never lost sight of him. No matter how crowded, Credence could always feel him looking. His skin didn’t crawl though, because Newt always felt a little distant –more like being _observed_. Nothing interfering, no agenda, just recognition as easily as a lamppost or a street sign. Credence had no idea how it made him feel: not uncomfortable, but not settled either. He avoided those thoughts along with all the rest.

Nothing felt as right as invisibility. He knew that wasn't truly the term for it, but it felt like enough: not having to hide in the first place. For the first time, he could breathe. He was stained, but underneath that was only absence. He followed Newt to the edge of the Central Park Zoo (don’t look up, focus on the cages) and simply sat while the man sketched various animals in quick strokes, providing a constant background hum of displeasure. 

\---

He didn't know what caused the change. Clearly he could cope with Outside provided it didn't involve people, so why complicate it?

"I just want you to meet him," Queenie said, so sweetly that the instinctive idea of refusing made Credence ache. Guilt was an old friend, though. "He's lovely, you don't have to worry. You don't have to say anything." Still a stranger. "He ain't a stranger to me, honey. You got on with Newt alright, didn't you?"

He hated the idea. Hated it. Didn't know if it was the interaction or the visibility he dreaded more, only that his stomach was dissolving and taking the rest of him with it. He wasn't a person. He wasn't a person. He – 

Queenie's tears caught the light before she could turn away in time, and he remembered he owed the Goldsteins too much to say no.

\---

To Credence, food being 'free' was an act of charity; one he'd ended when he'd killed Ma. You weren't supposed to be casual about it, and you gave it in churches, or back alleys to children in the rain. (Not that anyone had done that for him in a long time: wrong age, wrong sex, wrong everything but still hungry.)

"Here," the man said with a broad smile, as if pain or doubt never existed, holding out a small golden roll. "I've got some pastries I bet you'd love, but right now it looks like a strong wind would knock you right off your feet."

Somehow the words didn’t sound cruel, not even when Credence tried to ignore the smile. All he could do was blink back, taking the bread because it would be rude not to and then biting into it for the same reason. Then he just stood there, dumb, eyes widening as the unfamiliar sensations erupt in his mouth: crust giving way with the slightest pressure, insides soft and steaming, crumbs cascading as he raised a startled hand to try to catch them, so much saliva it stings. All completely alien to him; calling it by the same name as the bread in the church felt an insult. The thought came, detached, that now the loaves and fishes seemed a far more divine meal. Maybe this was what His body was supposed to taste like.

He flushed at the sacrilegious turn of his thoughts (always sinfully easy), ducking his head although he knew that wouldn’t make any difference to Queenie. She seemed distracted though when he sneaked a look back up, smiling at him as usual but her eyes focused on the baker.

As much as Credence wanted to savour this, he abruptly realised the roll is all gone, devoured somewhere in his false rapture. "Sorry," he said, then, "Thank you," when he remembered what actually mattered: the kindness.

Impossibly, Jacob waved him off. "No need, if you always eat my food like that then I'm the grateful one." Obviously that confused Credence, but Jacob seemed a rather confusing man despite his warm openness. When Tina had removed the charm in the bakery (focus on the walls), he'd jumped a little but then it was as if Credence had just entered with the rest of them – which technically he had, skin still ringing from the strangeness of the outside. Jacob acted as if he'd always seen him. It made Credence tingle, feeling far too obvious but at a loss as to where to hide somewhere as compact and yet full of light as this bakery. The smell alone seemed too solid for shadows, reaching out to them at the end of the street and winding back, rich and sweet, a sense of a home from a fairytale embedded in his chest.

From the back room, Jacob produced an entire tray of pastries, his "latest batch", wisps of steam escaping into the air and sugar glistening. Credence could only stare with eyes wide enough to hurt, barely able to comprehend that they're real. Next to him, Newt was already bending over, identifying the exact breed of bowtruckle.

"I didn't really have any specifics in mind, Newt."

"But this one is clearly a rowan – you can even see the berries!"

"Those, er, those weren't supposed to be there..."

"Try one, honey!" Queenie nudged Credence, glowing too bright for him to lie.

"I ... can't." Not won’t: _can’t_.

"Why not?" Tina asked with a frown. From where she was standing she couldn’t see Queenie's face already wilting as his darkness taints her.

The least he could do is not make Queenie say it. "It's not for me."

"But he just said – "

"Not like that." He took a step back, hunching over. He knew Queenie could hear all of it, but he didn’t know how to put something so obvious into words, like describing the ache of cold or the pain of not breathing. It wasn’t that it was gluttony (that precious roll twists inside him), but "I'm not supposed to have it. Anything like that."

It was funny, how completely Tina's expression matched Queenie's. Behind them, Jacob looked up from his easy rhythm with Newt, and, as if Credence didn’t already realise he shouldn't be here, even Newt was starting to frown and look away from the dozen pastry bowtruckles laid out in front of him.

The movements came so quickly and easily: a muttered apology; head bowed, out of the door without looking back; burrow into the nearest place the crowd thickened and don’t listen to them calling his name. Into an alleyway; along a backstreet; a main road and slipping between cars. He couldn’t run, hadn’t been able to run for years: a child running might have been playing, but it wasn't long after his limbs started to lengthen and trip that policemen started to question where he was going. Smooth and steady, and invisible.

That word made him stumble, veering down another alleyway. He put out a hand to the wall and felt cold dampness around him. Maybe he should have asked for another charm; made up some excuse, and accepted the sin for lying. It had felt like such a dream, so short a time ago, nobody able to see him. He could do it naturally but real invisibility had been intoxicating. Truly vanishing from the world. Inconsequential. Nothing.

No plan for where to head to, moving forwards on instinct and following wherever his feet led. Avoid that police station, steer closer to this café, slow past the vents where warm steam almost stands a chance against the city chill rushing back after weeks stolen at the Goldsteins'. He didn't expect it to ache so much. He realised it had been too long since he was truly cold, and longed for his old numbness, left behind just like the coat they'd lent him.

He slowed, easy sidewalks turning to potholes and rubble underfoot. A pattern of stones he'd know anywhere. That lamppost on the corner, curling like a beckoning finger. That dark hole between buildings there, like the mouth of Hell.

Unable to stop, Credence's feet carried him around the corner, and there it was. Inevitability.

Nobody had tried to clear it away, not properly. No doubt some of the kids had taken the easy stones and tools to sell so they could eat again, but the bulk of the church remained, a scar of the wound he’d rent in the world. Scene of the murder. Charity turned to wrath.

And there, gazing at the same ruins, was a figure. Someone overseeing his handiwork.

Credence wanted to flee. But why should his body listen to him, when Mr Graves was right there?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note updated tags. We are now getting aftermath of physical torture not just emotional.

The end of the dream: the world smearing like rain on a windowpane, fading next to the only real thing left. Mr Graves was just standing there, inevitable, watching the ruins of the church, and waiting for Credence to come back to him. It probably wasn’t even magic moving Credence's feet forwards, step by helpless step. Something was pulling at Credence's chest, a string, a leash tugging him back to his owner. It made it hard to breathe, but he knew it would be easier once Mr Graves looked at him. Everything would be easier. All this time he’d been struggling with freedom, and now he knows he was never free to begin with. It could all stop now.

At the last moment, Mr Graves tilted his head ever so slightly, as if hearing something, and then abruptly turned to look at him. Credence recoiled, stumbling back, with his hand pressed over his mouth in horror.

Wrong. Everything was wrong.

It looked so much like Mr Graves, but in that instant, all he could see were the mistakes. The illusion shattered. He could feel the shock of the strike to his face.

Mr Graves had always held himself so straight, so imposing; this man's spine bent in the faintest echo of Credence's own curling in on himself. At first his hair seemed controlled but up close the haphazard edges appeared, more grey than black, and none of it quite smoothed down. Sometimes Mr Graves had had a trace of stubble at the end of the day (Credence's chin felt raw), yet the sight of this man's beard threatened to spin the world away.

Most disturbing of all, though, were the eyes. Credence had often fancied that Mr Graves could see into his soul with those eyes, the sins and flaws spread out like Credence's body under him. Those eyes had told Credence who he belonged to, spinning his will out of him. They would never have looked startled, or confused, or ... scared?

They'd never have looked like Credence's. Not for a second.

Credence’s stomach lurched. The man stiffened, as clearly ready to bolt as any creature. The two of them stared at each other and a very small, somehow detached part of Credence wondered which of them was really more terrified.

The monster clawed at his insides, the thing Mr Graves wanted, and he clasped his hands as if he could hold his skin together. The man flinched at the movement, eyes darting down and up again. His own hands were thrust into the pockets of his coat – still long, still dark, but more mistakes, nowhere near as fine or as grand as the one Mr Graves had worn like a second skin. Credence found that he was grateful for that, as though wearing Mr Graves' clothes could be worse than his face.

The ache was back, stronger than ever before, stronger than any time in his life since he first felt the heavy weight of his own body. Beneath the shock and lingering as that faded, he longed to be invisible again. He’d wanted it as his body contorted out of childhood; when the walls of the Goldsteins’ apartment were the only things holding him together; and now, so that this man wouldn't be staring back at him. He’d left that magic behind with all the rest. Idiot.

"Credence?"

That voice, worn at the edges, not unlike how Credence's could be when all he had to say were apologies to his Ma for failing her again. The stranger was frowning at him now, and he caught a breath as for a moment those wrongly hanging features aligned into an expression which was almost familiar. Not that Mr Graves had ever looked confused, but this was close enough to the times when he’d been too deep in thought to care about Credence's presence that he felt small again.

"Are you Credence?" 

"Who are you?" His voice barely sounded like his, so far away, and only more lost when the real question escaped: "Where's Mr Graves?"

He might as well have physically lashed out (a sharp blow to the face), sending the man stumbling back with his mouth open. Credence hadn’t meant to ask but he still wasn’t sure where the dream ended, or the test, or more magic. He hadn’t meant to whine like that but just the prospect of Mr Graves returning tugged that helpless thing out of him. He just needed to be owned. He didn’t understand why he was being mocked like this.

"He's – " The man's mouth pulled tight and Credence hunched back, head bowed. "They told me you were dead."

"Who?"

The faintest relief as that gaze left him, enough to breathe once. "In the hospital, they said – " The man broke off, sighing with a frustration which almost became a growl and a shiver ran down Credence's spine again. "Almost twenty witnesses saw you disappear. How did you survive that?"

Hollow, screaming, burning. Mr Graves telling them to stop and – "You weren't there?"

Scoffing, the stranger with Mr Graves' face said, "Obviously not."

Credence took a slow step back, tensing for the moment the man lunged. It didn’t come, yet. "Where were you?"

For a single instant, he saw the man's face twist into a glare that took his breath away. At once he stood still, muscles frozen. Couldn’t move because what he wanted didn’t matter. Mr Graves was always so busy, so important, and while it was natural for Credence to cling to him it was so unsightly, so inconvenient – 

The stranger smirked. It was so unexpected and so free from mirth that Credence couldn’t even gasp. "Chained to the wall," he said, "in my own basement." He produced his left hand from his pocket and held it up so that the sleeve fell back, exposing a line of scalded and intricate red which wound around his wrist as surely as a hand. Credence didn’t scream, although he thought maybe he should have. His eyes just followed the marks, traced with a certainty he recognised.

When he followed the path up to the stranger’s face, he saw those unfamiliar eyes narrowed under a frown. Slowly that hand reached up further, towards the man’s neck, and distantly Credence thought that it looked different without those glinting scorpion collarpins coiled close. (Once, when Mr Graves was in the bath and told Credence to stay put, he'd rubbed his thumb over their gleaming silver, wondering whether they might come alive, pressing against the point of the tail and waiting for blood or poison to spill.) Watching Credence closely, curious but jaw firmed, he pulled his shirt away to reveal a matching red band across his neck, framing it as carefully as the tie he's missing. As if he was still wearing a collar.

Credence inhaled at that thought of _still_. He jumped as he felt his own hand brushing against his own neck, tracing something which never did leave a mark. Not one which Mr Graves had left for the world to see, anyway. The scars on his back Mr Graves had said were too old to heal, but he had never seemed to like leaving anything permanent if he could help it. Credence's body needed to stay just the same.

The man lent forwards, as if he might move closer if not for the tight winding of Credence's limbs. His mouth opened slightly and Credence barely stopped himself from whimpering at seeing such indecision where it doesn't belong.

"They say he won't talk about you," the man said, fingers still hovering in front of the brand. "Only – " He stopped, pressing his lips together, arm falling loose at his side. "He doesn't say anything."

At least this man and Mr Graves had one thing in common. They were both liars.

"Did he say anything to you?" Credence asked.

Instantly all that indecision vanished, the man's face hardening into a blankness Credence knew he wouldn’t break. "He talked a lot. I'm not in the habit of listening to torturers."

He meant the words to bleed. He didn’t know the meaning of it. "I just need to know – "

"Need to know what?" It could have been Mr Graves standing there, speaking in those clipped tones. Credence pictured running to him and closing his eyes, pretending nothing had changed despite the church in ruins at their backs. Starting again, the way it should be.

He opened his eyes again. "Who are you?"

An inhalation; fingers twitching to his left; his right arm still tightly pressed against his side and buried in his pocket. The stranger opened his mouth and Credence realised he already knew the answer, that he didn’t _know_ – 

"Credence!"

He spun around, something clamping down in his mind to stop the shout. Tina was standing at the end of the street, breathing heavily and braced against a wall. Her face broke into such a relieved smile that every thought left his head besides a little confusion and an overwhelming urge to apologise. If only it hadn’t vanished when she looked past him. In an instant she was forcing herself to stand upright, swallowing, stuttering, "Mr Graves, I'm sorry, I didn't mean – "

"It's no concern of yours, Tina," the stranger said, suddenly slumping again, all confusion and indignation dissolving until Credence could only see the same tired shape as before. "I was just reminding myself of a few things."

Slowly approaching the two of them, Tina looked carefully towards Credence. "We thought we'd lost you," she said, and his heart ached at the worry in her voice, for all that he couldn’t believe anyone would be that concerned about him. Maybe she’d realised she'd let a monster loose in the city. "We followed you outside and you were just ... gone."

He could only stammer uselessly. "I thought I should – I needed to – " Then he felt his shoulders slump, the panic dying into acceptance. He knew what would come next. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run out." It was okay, Credence still had his belt. 

"Credence, I – "

"I take it you knew he was alive, Goldstein?"

Tina looked horrified, presumably as the enormity of what could have happened hits her. "I – I'm sorry, Mr Graves, we found him here but we didn't think – "

"'We'?" the stranger repeated, eyebrow raised.

Tina blushed. "My sister, but I promise we haven't told anyone, sir."

"Clearly not." The man scoffed. "I was actually wondering whether you meant Mr Scamander. He is back in New York, after all."

"Only after we found him, sir," Tina told him, then winced. She gave Credence such an anguished glance, and he suddenly realised that maybe she was apologising to him. What for, he had no idea. 

Then she dropped her head and mumbled, "Obviously, if you think the President should know, sir - "

The man waved her off sharply. "She has more than enough to worry about, Goldstein. Just – " He looked at Credence – first in the eye and then down to his neck, neither seeming entirely intentional – and said, "I'll speak to you later. For now, I think we should all leave."

"Of course, sir." Tina held out her hand, only stopping herself at the last second from grabbing Credence. He didn’t really want to touch anyone, skin threatening to recoil from the slightest contact. He turned back the way she’d come from and hoped that would be enough, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight from the weight of that gaze. "Thank you, I'm sorry, I – "

"You can stop, Goldstein."

They were almost at the end of the street, Tina’s feet moving so fast, when the stranger called out after them. "Percival."

That voice still sank hooks into Credence's flesh. He turned.

"My name is Percival."


End file.
